


More Than Us

by cathcacen



Category: Captain America (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2015-10-25
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:57:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1753587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cathcacen/pseuds/cathcacen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of Steve and Nat one-shots. There's definitely friendship between the two jarringly-different Avengers, but there's also a strangely omnipresent attraction that threatens to change the basis of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Smiling Face

**Author's Note:**

> First posted at ff.net under username Emmelyn Cindy Mah. Personally I think the later chapters get better as I delve deeper into the fandom. Whoo!
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own Marvel. Or write for Marvel. Or in fact write for any of the Marvel Movies, though I'd take a job on that front any day. HINT HINT.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Natasha shows Steve exactly how smileys work.

"Tell me again how that's a face."

He was peering at the screen of his phone, prominent brows furrowed in deep concentration. Blessed at an opportune moment with a junction and a stoplight, Nat watched the all-American.

She didn't know whether she was more amused or bemused.

"Flip the phone—no, not so fast, or the screen's just going to flip with you." She snatched the device from his hands, then lifted it to the side of her head, holding it up against her cheek. "See?"

Bright, bright eyes shifted quickly. Screen, her face. Screen, her lips. One last flick, and then he met her eyes.

Then, he grinned, that boyish, almost sheepish smile he wore whenever he learnt something new. She'd seen that look on him quite frequently since the incident in New York.

Every time, it made her heart skip a little.

"You don't smile that way, though." He retrieved the device as the lights blinked green. She shifted gears; out of the corner of her eye, she felt his gaze upon her. "You sort of quirk one side of your lips up."

" _You_ smile that way."

"Do I? I've never noticed."

She snorted; he arched a quizzical brow. "I have a hard time imagining you smiling at yourself in the mirror, is all."

He chuckled, sounding amused. "I don't."

"It's a nice smile, though." It was surprisingly easy to admit. She added, then—"Ever see a happy corgi?"

"Are you calling me a dog, Romanoff?"

"Only if you think I am."

They were nearing the edge of the city, abandoning bustling streets for the stretch of highway that would take them to their rendezvous point. The STRIKE team would have assembled, the carrier prepared.

It irked her somewhat that all she wanted was for the drive to last forever; and if not forever, longer than the few hours it would take. It grated at her all the more because control and desire were _her_ game, _her_ toys, _her_ tools.

She hated the effect the blue-eyed boy had on her. Hated and loved his innocence and naiveté. Reverent of and repulsed by his role as both a moral compass and defender of righteousness.

Most of all, she hated the way he made her question: hate or love?

More and more, she was finding it was the latter. It was hard to hate someone with that much goodness in him.

She told herself that was all there was to it.

"What's a meme?" His voice jerked her from her thoughts. She packed away the feelings of disgust, sought the wry, witty sometimes-companion she thought Captain America seemed to like.

It wasn't very hard to find that version of herself.

Once again, he wore that look of concentration. She leaned over and peered at his screen. "Did you just Google _smiling corgi_ —I don't believe it, you did."

He looked a touch confused. It was sheepish confusion, tinged with slight embarrassment. That face—the one she loved and hated best. "Well, if you were comparing me to a dog, I wanted to know which kind."

"Rogers, I was _not_ calling you a dog."

He cracked a smile at her quick rebuttal, amused at her amusement. "Hey, it's okay. They're pretty cute."

"In a, just got high sort of way?"

He'd only just started to protest amid a bout of almost guilty chuckling, when she'd turned to flash him a grin. It seemed almost natural with him—but then he blinked, and the chuckling slowly died away.

What remained was the smile he always seemed to wear in her presence. Slightly unsure, but warm. Wary, yet in its own way, trusting and fond.

His voice was soft. "Hey, now you've got that smiling face."

She tried for a careless dismissal. "You don't deserve the Sourpuss face I save for Stark."

"I get the corgi smile?"

He looked genuinely touched, happy, even. She felt the smile deepen. "I'll show you a real corgi smile when we get there."


	2. Lie To Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve isn't happy and Natasha's pissed off.

He was mad. Captain America was mad, by far the angriest she'd ever seen him.

For all the time they'd spent bantering in play outside the field of work, in it, they were colleagues. Equals. On the battlefield, he was the soldier and she was the spy. He ordered, she pretended to obey.

Except now he knew. And even without all the experience she'd harnessed in reading people, Natasha knew she'd cut him with the truth of her work.

Gone was the boyish Steve who'd grin at her through his lashes, almost shyly, when she'd tease him. Gone was the Steve who'd sheepishly chuckle whenever someone showed him something he hadn't discovered about the new century.

Instead, it was Captain America who sat across her, stoic and silent, brows furrowed, doggedly refusing to even look at her. The Captain was furious, though she knew he'd oblige to forgive if she pretended hard enough to be sorry.

Somehow she was having trouble working up the nerve to lie even more to him.

"The man's a moral compass. Lying to him is like lying to your ma. It's not worth it—he might not see through your lies, but the guilt'll kill you so fast you'd go running back to him with the truth in a minute." Clint had laughed himself sore when Fury had first paired them up for work several weeks following the disastrous events of New York. They were still in the process of picking up the pieces, with the Avengers reeling from the aftershocks, when the call had come.

All things considered, Natasha thought it had been a good and solid, if not logical move. Cap would do the heavy-lifting, taking out the bad guys while she snuck about on Fury's orders, gathering the intel SHIELD needed. At the same time, she could keep an eye on him, while keeping him occupied.

_An idle mind is the devil's plaything after all._

The arrangements made all the more sense when one took into account the Captain's single-minded focus where lives were concerned—he'd rescue the hostages, capture the infidels, liberate the concentration camps, so long as the orders from above didn't interfere with his set of principles and ethics. And even then, Natasha was sure he'd never be able to sit still as someone suffered, just to make a point. In the thick of it all, she knew, and Fury knew, that they could count on him to watch her back while she did her job, whether or not he knew _what_ that job entailed.

They'd counted on him never picking up on the fact that the Widow had missions of her own—not unless she wanted him to.

"He's a skilled fighter, and you're the best liar I have on my payroll." Fury had said.

"So you want me to lie to him."

"I want you to do your job."

"By lying to him."

Fury had narrowed his single eye at her then, unimpressed. "You're the best. _Be_ the best."

_Too bad he hadn't counted on Steve being too damn_ _ **good**_. That made it hard to lie to him. _Or keep up a lie for too long, even._

She cleared her throat. He paid her no heed, and instead, turned aside to fix his eyes upon the row of parachutes lined up against the interior of their ride.

She bit back the urge to ask if he were practicing putting one on in his head—especially given his parachute-less stunt, not four hours ago. Somehow, she didn't think he'd appreciate her having a laugh at his expense so soon after the incident.

It would have been easier if he'd yelled at her. Instead, he pretended she wasn't there.

"Two minutes." Rumlow jerked his head towards the end of the craft, eyes pausing as he caught sight of the Captain and the Widow. One dark brow quirked; _what's up?_ , his face asked.

She wrinkled her nose in response. He knew better than to ask.

When the carrier landed, he, along with the rest of the STRIKE team led the hostages out. The debriefing would be quick—there would be a lot of paperwork and post-traumatic counselling to get through.

Not everyone who worked with SHIELD had experienced horrors in the field.

Natasha let out a breath, then glanced across at Steve. "Wait up."

He'd gotten to his feet, his back to her, and barely spared her a look as he attached his shield to his arm. "What?"

Her hipbone complained as she stood; they'd landed badly after Batroc's grenade had gone off. For her part, she didn't think it hadn't been anything more than a minor annoyance, but Batroc had gotten away.

She added it into the list of reasons Captain Rogers was glaring at her in the present.

"What, are you going to ignore me forever? I said I was sorry."

His back tensed. He did not turn to face her. "No, you said it was your fault. That's not the same as saying you're sorry, and I'm not sure I'd believe you either way."

_Ouch._ That had stung. In better days and in a better mood, she'd have taken it as a compliment. Now all it did was to make her flush.

"I did my job."

"Yeah, well, you didn't do it well enough, then." His footsteps were heavy upon the metal flooring beneath them.

_That_ stung, even more. She gnashed her teeth together. _Don't get mad,_ her mind said.

_Fuck that._

"Yeah? By whose standards, Rogers?" She snarled as she strode after him, reaching to grab at his arm. "Yours? I had my orders, same as you. I followed mine, I got the data I needed, job well done."

His eyes glinted as he turned to face her. She didn't think it were possible for those eyes to be possessed by that rage—those sweet, tender eyes.

_Damn it._ She swallowed, and forced the bubbling in her chest down. _Not the right time, Nat._

"You lied to me." Despite the frustration-laced accusation in his tone, Steve did not pull away. She counted her blessings, but met his stony glare. "This just proves I can't trust you, Agent Romanoff."

She wasn't sure whether she was more hurt by his use of _that_ name, or furious at his judging her for following orders. She decided it was a combination of both.

The hand that shoved him away was rougher than she'd anticipated—but she was having enough trouble fighting the urge to tase him as it were. Her cheeks burned; there was an aching in her midsection that ran all the way up to her chest that she was certain had nothing to do with The Lemurian Star's hijacking.

It terrified her. All the more so because she knew that the only way to fix it was to apologise—and to once again, be close to, and be trusted by Steve Rogers.

Instead, she hissed, "Take it up with Fury, then."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For the purpose of formality, I'll say this now: I own nothing. Marvel does.
> 
> Also, I should point out again (in case y'all are getting the wrong idea) that this is a collection of one-shots, and as such I'll be jumping in and out of order from time to time. It just so happens these first two oneshots are in order. Eh, heh.
> 
> I wrote this bit simply because I wanted to highlight that really, Nat didn't have a choice. She was following orders too, so for Steve to get pissed off at her is slightly unfair. She obviously thinks so too—and now Fury's going to get yelled at, ha. I assume they made up at some point, when she's had the chance to calm down from getting turned on by Steve being pissed.
> 
> Thanks again, until next time!


	3. Trust Issues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had to keep the circle small, and deep down she understands, but Natasha can't help but to hurt.

He'd found her in a sterile bunker deep within the fortress Fury kept. She was lying on her back with her eyes shut, half in the nude, hands folded neatly over her abdomen. The blanket that shrouded her frame barely hid the bindings around her shoulder.

_Oh, Buck. What've we become?_

She remained unresponsive, even when he sank onto the rickety chair by her cot. It creaked; she barely twitched a brow. She was awake, he knew, but locked within the fortress of her mind. Her eyes were closed to him—they were a door, and if he wished to enter, he would need to knock harder. But he didn't. She was too hurt, too broken, too shattered. In the present, he knew she needed a moment to recoup. To just _be_.

Without a doubt, Steve understood that to look into her eyes would be to gaze into a mirror. Betrayed. They were both betrayed. With all their physical wounds tended to, the Captain and the Widow were nonetheless bled dry. They were barely holding it together. He, with determination. She, with retreat.

The twinge of guilt in his gut twisted his insides, set ablaze a trail of red-hot fury.

His friend. His best friend. The woman his best friend had shot—not once, but twice now. The woman who made him so mad, confused him, reeled him in one moment and pushed him away the next.

The woman he was unsure of—but yearned for nonetheless.

The days and hours swirled in his head. Piece by piece, like shrapnel piercing his body, the bullets hit hard and dug deep. Everything had changed. The world, the game, the people he thought he knew. HYDRA. SHIELD. Fury. Rumlow. STRIKE team. Neighbour. Pierce. Peggy. Bucky. Natasha. Bucky. Natasha.

"Steve?"

She must have heard the rise of his breaths, rapidly gaining volume and depth. Caught as she was in the walls of her own building, he knew she'd never fail to come to his aid. He'd told her. He trusted.

He trusted her with his life. He didn't know why—and from the way her face had barely changed, brows lifting with surprise at his admission, she didn't know why, neither.

Still, Steve Rogers would trust the Black Widow with his life.

His heart.

"Hey. Feel any better?"

Half-lidded eyes met his own. She quirked her lip, but barely managed to smile. Through the cracks in her defences, he saw her vulnerable.

The only difference was that she no longer tried to hide it. Not with him.

"Hurts like a bitch."

"Maybe you should sit this one out, Nat. It's going to get rough out there."

"I'll be fine." In the dimmed interior of her bunker, Steve nonetheless saw the creased lines of her face as she pushed herself into a seat. Her shoulders trembled; gingerly-coordinated, the Black Widow was in the moment, graceless. The smoothness of her movements, the fluidly measured lift of a leg, the slight tilt of her head—all agility ceased to become her.

All that remained before him, laid bare for scrutiny, was simply Natasha. Disarmed and shattered.

He couldn't shake the feeling that he'd somehow wronged her. Logic said otherwise, but that didn't make him feel any better.

_Damn it, Buck. Are you trying to kill my_ —

— _partner_. He caught himself just in time. _My friend. My partner._

"You know, you're not as good at lying as you think."

The green in her eyes flashed. She snarled—then winced as the movement jarred her shoulder. The sound was enough to move him—his heart, his body.

In an instant, he was by her side, clutching her arm, holding her steady. To her credit, she did not pull away.

It was half of forever before she ceased to tremble. Still, he noted she tried for some semblance of the Black Widow. The low, husky burr delivered both sensual whispers in the dead of night, and growled threats in the heat of battle. It was that voice she carried—used, to inform him, that she was, still, Agent Romanoff. "I'm still better than you, Rogers."

He heard it loud and clear—but it wasn't enough to drown out the tight, barely-controlled notes in the words she spoke. The fear in her voice, the hurt that had drowned her throat.

It was deafening to him.

He chose to ignore the Widow. After all, he saw only Natasha. "Steve. We're friends now, remember?" She frowned. "I don't know, I've been asleep a while, but in my time, friends called each other by name."

She gnashed her teeth together, the straight, white pearls grinding hard. He saw the wetness pool in her eyes. Her voice grew harder; the walls thickened. She shoved him back.

He resisted.

"I thought of Nick as a friend. A leader, yes, but under that all, he was my friend. I trusted him _above all others_." Natasha's eyes were wide as she hissed through her teeth. Fingers clutched his shirt, knuckles pale. "Above all others, Rogers."

She'd seen the understanding in his eyes.

" _I wasn't sure who to trust."_

He thought he'd imagined it at first, the barely-hidden flinch. In Fury's presence, Natasha had disguised it as physical discomfort; the doctor at her side proved useful for this purpose. Still, Steve had to admit that he'd completely forgotten about it in the aftermath of their latest revelations. She was resilient—she was tough. A little hurt was something she'd weathered before, and could weather again.

But this was Nick Fury. He and Natasha shared a history that Steve now realised he knew nothing about.

He hadn't been aware of just how close to breaking point she was. And now that he was, Steve found himself wishing he could protect her. Physically, emotionally—wholly.

He reached for her hand. She flinched, again, but he held on tight. "People make stupid decisions sometimes. Doesn't mean anything. You know Fury, and he knows you."

She choked back a half-scathing chuckle. "He let me think he was dead, Rogers. How'd you feel?"

"My best friend was dead, too. And now he's not."

She looked at him then, voice softening. "I didn't mean—"

He managed a smile, but felt his limbs weaken. "It's okay." The ache in his stomach intensified. "At least Fury's not trying to kill you. And you won't have to face him, knowing full well he wants to kill you."

"You won't be alone." The words were barely whispered, but they cut through him like ice. He shut his eyes, willing the trembling to stop, begging for the pain to subside.

_Too much. It's too much._ Peggy. Bucky. Peggy. Bucky.

Natasha.

Her free hand found its way to his other, winding about his fingers. Bound this way, they clung to one another. Both aching, both comforting. She leaned forward, pressing her face against his chest. He could smell the dull, antiseptic shampoo in her hair, and became aware she could probably smell the same on him.

In unfamiliar surroundings with unfamiliar scents, sights and sounds, Steve nonetheless found Natasha perfectly familiar. She was simply that: Natasha.

"I'm with you, Steve." Again, the whisper. His name, barely perceptible. Fragile, a delicate thing. Raw.

_Honest_.

"I'm with you. I'm with you. _I'm_ with you."

Again and again, she repeated the words. When at last she fell silent, he lifted his head and pressed his forehead to her own, meeting her eyes.

In them, he saw himself. A reflection, both within and without.

He wanted to kiss her—take her in his arms and kiss her. Hold her close. Show her that she wasn't alone—that neither of them were alone.

Instead, he murmured, "I trust _you_ above all others, Nat."

Her eyes never wavered. Her fingers tightened. She swallowed.

"I trust you too, Steve."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi again, folks! And so soon, too! But I watched Captain America: The First Avenger last night, and now I'm having all kinds of fluffy CapWidow feels, so I figure one more for the road is always a good thing!
> 
> First off—Marvel owns everything. I'm just the fangirl who writes goofy fanfiction.
> 
> Secondly—Please do drop me a review! Means the world to me and I absolutely love hearing what you guys think! (Ideas for more one-shots are totally welcome.)
> 
> Third off—this fits better with the movie, in my head. The new bromance, with Sam talking to Steve about Bucky and the potential face off is great, but are we honestly supposed to believe he didn't run it through Natasha first? They spent the first half of the film being completely alone, with only the other for support, after all.
> 
> Last sentence—I initially wrote Nat responding in kind, as in, "I trust you above all others, Steve.", but really. She's way too guarded for that, though I do see her trusting him above all others, even if she won't admit it. Besides, Nat in my head has always been more show, and less tell. Steve probably gets it.
> 
> Right, enough rambling. Thanks so much, guys! Until next time—cheers!


	4. Kiss Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ultron is winning the war and it's all Steve can do to not fall to pieces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might want to be warned beforehand - this chapter is pretty sad, but admittedly it was my favourite both in terms of writing, and in plot. It broke my heart a little, and still does every time I read it. You have been warned!

Pandemonium erupted. What was left of the city was engulfed in flames. The lights had died out hours ago, but the fire lit the way.

It showed only crimson. Crimson flames licking the edges of shattered rooftops and broken walls. Shards of glass littered the ruined streets and cracked pavements, reflecting golds, yellows, blues.

Yet the crimson was dominant. It flooded the cement, caking together dirt and tar.

It coated his hands. Washed his torso, dyed his clothes. In his mouth, it tasted like grime and steel, bile and salt. Drop by drop, it painted him red. He struggled to wipe at the crimson, but his arms were occupied. His hands shook. The scream in his throat refused to materialise. The pleas echoed in his head; his lips formed no words.

The crimson river continued to flow.

In his arms, his dying wife choked. Vivid green eyes wrought with terror. Lifeless hands limp by her side. Blood red hair matted down over her forehead and scalp—he wasn't sure her hair had always been this red.

"You'll be okay… please." The words were insufficient—still, they were what he managed. " _Please_."

She struggled to breathe. The harsh, strangled sound that escaped her throat near broke his resolve. He slumped forward; she rasped again. She'd stopped fighting some minutes before. Given up. Ceased to struggle, and accepted.

She'd resigned herself to her fate, with absolute certainty that he'd somehow see her through her final moments.

" _I trust you too, Steve."_

In his mind, the words she'd spoken were a thousand years old. A thousand years since they'd fallen in love. A thousand years since they'd dared to hope for a future together. A thousand years since their first _honest_ kiss, and the day she'd said _yes_. A thousand years since the first night they'd writhed beneath the sheets, locked in each other's arms.

The moment she'd gasped beneath him, tangled in his limbs, eyes affixed upon him with the glistening sheen of lovemaking fresh upon her brow—it was a thousand nights and a thousand days away.

A thousand lost ages. Days that went by too quickly and missions that lasted too long. Nights that satisfied his craving for her, yet left him pining for more. Those were the days and nights that led to this.

Natasha. _His_ Natasha, dying in his arms.

She was still watching him, her eyes, already blurry with mist, following the trail of his tears. Her lips—the lips he'd kissed so often—cracked and swollen, pale from blood loss, trembled; she tried to find words, but he was met with silence.

"Please, Nat. You _can't_."

Her brow twitched. If it were possible to hear a heart shatter, Steve thought the sound of Natasha's breaking would deafen them all. She struggled to swallow, and he leaned closer, held her tighter.

" _James._ " The whisper was barely audible. She choked again, and her chest tightened; the gaping wound in her belly gushed. He gasped, pressed harder; she winced and let out a whimper. " _S-Ste—_ "

"Stark's got him. James is safe."

At that, she relaxed, slowly blinking the moistness from her eyes. He thought he saw a wave of clarity wash over her features, and the tightness of her face softened as she watched him.

He hadn't realised how hard it had gotten for him to breathe. His hand trembled as it stroked at her hair, brushed it from her forehead. It came away bloody; he struggled to fight back a sob. "Please, Nat…"

_Please don't leave me here all alone._

She wore that face—it was one he knew well, one that she had worn in the past each time she'd woken to hear him thrashing in his sleep, fighting nightmares that never quite left. Riddled with sympathy and love, and helplessness. She could, and did, try to soothe him in the aftershock of his nightmares, nights where he'd wake from the terror drenched in sweat, where sleep eluded him. He'd felt better for her company, the warm feel of her arms and legs wound about his body.

Sapped of all strength, Natasha could no longer comfort. He wondered if she'd ever realised his worst nightmare was losing her.

_Kiss me._

There was no sound. Only the faint parting of her trembling lips as she mouthed the words. On the escalator, he'd been hesitant. That time he'd confessed, he'd been shy. The night they made love, when she'd asked him yet again to kiss her, he'd complied with the dutiful affection of a man who loved with all his heart. On their wedding day, he'd been hopeful—they'd both been, standing on the frontier of their brave new future together.

Yet now, Steve found himself fearful. He wanted to kiss her, to be close to her and to show her that she was loved and cherished and wanted. Still, the gesture struck him as one of finality.

_She must realise it._ His mind raced, his heart thumped in his throat. _Surely, she knows._

_Kiss me._ She mouthed the words again. There was no desperation in her face—only his. She was hurting, she was tired. James was safe; she would go, peacefully.

The only thing left to do, was to say goodbye.

He ignored the stream of tears trickling down his chin. The crystal droplets washed trails of dirt from Natasha's face where they landed. He wiped them away, barely managing to smile. "Public displays of affection make people very uncomfortable."

She smiled then; furrowed brow, lips curled in vague amusement. Weakly, she nodded, the movement barely distinguishable. _Yes, they do._

He kissed her then. Salty steel and fiery ash swirled between them; he held her close, she reciprocated with what strength she had left. What passed between them was chaste—yet it said all he wanted. It was mere seconds, it was eternity.

_I love you with all my heart._

_I trust you._

_I'll watch over James._

_I'll always be with you._

The world stopped when Natasha went limp in his arms. He didn't know if his heart had stopped, too.

Steve Rogers had died with her. What was left, now, was the shell. The muscles, the strength, the shield. His heart, the heart that made Steve Rogers a good man—in weariness and grief, _that_ had ceased to beat. Steve Rogers had ceased to _be_.

The Captain got to his feet. Ultron was waiting for him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything, Marvel does!
> 
> As some of you might have realised, this was lifted (partially—they have a kid and Ultron kills them all, but in this incarnation, Peggy still dies and Bucky still becomes the Winter Soldier) from the Next Avengers, where basically everyone dies and leaves kids. I have to say I disagree with pretty much how James doesn't really acknowledge Nat as his mom throughout the entire movie. Bad James! Bad!
> 
> And of course, Steve, is absolutely gutted, having lost Peggy and Bucky and basically everyone in his life. And now, losing Nat, he finally breaks. I don't have any doubt he'd have forced himself to recover for James' sake if he'd survived, because he's A GOOD MAN above it all, but I get the feeling in that moment, he just wanted it all to end. He needs a hug, or a fruit basket, damn it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!


	5. Shall We Play A Game?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Steve and Natasha play Diablo 3.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: I apologise for this beforehand, but I've been told you won't understand much of this if you're not a Diablo player. I've added a bit of nottage at the bottom so there's some information that will hopefully make it much easier to comprehend. Either way, the gist of it is that Steve and Natasha got curious at Sam and Clint's gaming habits and decided to give it a try. Fun times.

It had started innocently enough. They'd completed their mission with hours left to spare. With a debriefing imminent and nerves too wired for sleep, the three agents had, at Sam's insistence, opted for breakfast. He'd been working round the clock on a new lead with Steve, and was present when the call had come. Fury trusted him enough; so did Coulson, by extension.

No one questioned his presence at the briefing on board The Bus. May had quirked a brow, but the moment passed without further inquiry. They'd departed for the mission with him in tow, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

The diner they'd chosen was fairly large, with wide, open windows and striped seats. An hour at the most from sunrise, it was empty. The waitress' eyes scanned them through, pausing over the distinctive shield Steve held, and the curve of Clint's bow where it rested snugly in the quiver strapped to his back. The corner of the young girl's lips tugged upwards—then she'd jerked her head towards one of the booths by a darker corner.

As Clint and Sam perused the menu, arguing over pancake flavours and waffle toppings, Natasha watched the Captain. He was seated directly opposite her, his shield propped up in the seat by his side and his elbows upon the table. His cheek was pressed into the open palm of his hand—he was exhausted, but too noble to admit to it.

She'd only seen him face to face a bare handful of times since their parting over Nick's grave. In those moments, they'd been caught up. Busy in various ongoing situations the world seemed bent on throwing upon them. They'd hardly been able to get a word in beyond the necessary.

She wondered if he'd missed her as much as she'd missed him—and hated herself for even thinking it.

Their eyes had met, and she'd felt it—the rush of blood to her head, the warmth that spread to her chest and stomach, and the momentary breathlessness that made her head swim. He'd grinned at her then, that boyish smile she'd thought often of. Then he'd jerked his head quickly aside.

_The boys have got to eat, right?_

She'd rolled her eyes. Under the table, his foot never shifted where it lay beneath hers.

They ate in relative silence. Bacon and eggs, sausages and beans, potatoes and toast. The boys had finally settled on chocolate-chip pancakes and banana-cinnamon waffles. The waitress kept them supplied in black coffee and huge portions befitting huge appetites. Natasha bit back a remark about a distinct lack of Asgardians and vociferous appetites in the vicinity.

She didn't think any of them would care to relive the Thor-Barton hotdog-eating rivalry of 2012.

The conversation veered off towards leisurely activities. Sam read mystery novels. Clint tinkered. They both played video games. As boys did, of course.

Two hours later, they were joined by Coulson and May. They'd watched, caught between amusement and perplexity; the pair were engaged in a heated debate about Capcom versus Blizzard. For her part, Natasha didn't know that she'd minded too much—grown men arguing over video games was something she'd had rare occasion to witness.

The argument had ended when May hauled Clint from his seat without so much as batting an eyelash. They'd sulked the entire ride back to The Bus.

Two weeks later, Natasha walked into Clint's apartment, only to find him at the desktop, grumbling profanities under his breath. The furious clicking and rapid punching of buttons tipped her off. He was in Prime Gamer Posture, as she'd so often heard Hill say.

"Your life globe's near zero."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"You're getting mauled to death."

"Go to hell, Nat."

"I'm sure I'll see you there in a bit."

She stalked away, but not before the demon hunter on-screen flipped over and died. The strangled yell was muffled by Clint's equally-frustrated cry. She told him it was the girliest sound she'd ever heard. He threw his mouse at her.

She spent the night eating pizza, working on reports they'd meant to do together. Clint resumed screaming at his desktop. It was well past midnight when she let herself out—he was still at it.

The next day, Steve made an off-hand remark about Sam's gaming habits. The Falcon, sleepy-eyed and irritable, could only scowl. Natasha shared a knowing glance with the Captain.

It was another week later when she'd encountered Clint at it again. They'd just finished extracting a package from a bunker in Alaska. The moment they'd handed it off to Coulson and made their way to his apartment, Clint resumed The Stance.

She'd watched as Hawkinawesome zipped across the screen, firing bolts in all directions. He'd ignored all her remarks and quips, and at one point attempted to shove her off her chair, which she'd pulled to his side.

She suspected it was because she'd told him his hunter needed a new spine.

It seemed an eternity later before he pushed his chair back. She arched a brow at him. He nodded at the screen. The chatbox read: **Suck on that, flyboy.**

Hawkinawesome was at just over 3 million* sheet damage. In the bathroom, his player was singing a made-up tune about puny monks going down.

She settled herself into his chair and clicked her way into the character loading screen. In a few brief moments, she'd run through the basics of the game. The female counterpart to Clint's hunter was by far more pleasant to look at. Judging by Sam's selection— _his_ monk was female, blonde, and had the most ridiculous accent—at least one of them was the quintessential male.

The chat box lit up.

**Said 1 mil. toughness.****

She bit back a laugh. The sounds in the shower died away. Clint called out something about bed, and to turn the lights off when she left.

Alone and amused, Natasha cracked her knuckles.

**New character, new pickups. We'll see who can get a toon to max with epic gear to boot first.**

There was a pause. She wondered if Sam had passed out.

**Seven AM. Brawl imminent.**

Hours later, with the sunlight only beginning to stream through the blinds by Clint's desk, the chat box blinked again.

**Level 70.**

Natasha straightened in her chair, lowering her folded legs onto the cold, hardwood floors. The joints in her back popped into place. Her fifth mug of coffee lay abandoned by the mouse. Sometime in the night, the adrenaline rush following the completion of her mission had dissipated. Caffeine had been necessary in order to complete her new mission.

_Infiltrate. Learn what you can about the subject. Avoid detection. Destroy evidence if necessary._

She knew Sam would never bring it up if he thought Clint had beat him. She hadn't counted on the game being _so damn fun_.

"Alright, Sam. Let's see what you've got."

She hit enter. **Come at me, bro.**

Within moments, they'd fired up the game. She watched the screen as Sam's toon—the male counterpart to his female monk—darted about. Bearded and bald. She noted he had a better accent, and approved.

The brawling arena was a small dungeon in-game. As the screen loaded, she checked the time.

7:01 AM. In the bedroom, Natasha could only just make out the sounds of Clint tossing about. He'd never been a quiet sleeper.

**Best two out of three.**

The response came almost immediately. **Scared of a one-hit KO?**

**In your dreams.**

**Ladies first.**

She didn't need to be told twice. The monk barely had a moment to dash away before the sky rained plummeting beasts. He tried to retreat, but the huntress was ready with her arrows. The corpse flew. She allowed herself the slightest bit of celebration, throwing both hands into the air.

_Ranged attacks. How fitting for Clint._

Half a second later, the screen flashed red; Sam had revived, and was _everywhere_ as far as she could see. As she clicked furiously for a hasty retreat, she thought she saw the monk run across the top left corner of the screen. The map told her he was in motion—and coming right at her. She fired, but the arrows bounced off the shield that had formed around him. In the three seconds the shield remained active, he'd reached her and delivered a single, fiery blow—an implosion that sent her huntress deep into the earth in a scorched, bloody heap.

She gnashed her teeth together. Reviving took a half second. He was on the run by then, likely aware of an impending counter-attack. She gave chase; he continued to hide, choosing nooks behind walls where her arrows couldn't reach. It took another bout of plummeting sky-beasts to draw him out into the open, but she'd noted her attacks were dealing less and less damage. Likely the pulsing circle of runes beneath his feet were the cause. In that time, he continued his forward assault, sending pillars of fire in her direction with flaming roundhouse kicks. She vaulted away, again and again and again.

The circle of runes disappeared. She vaulted at him, sparing no time in punching the next attack key. The fan of knives emitted a metallic screech. He died with a scream.

The chat box popped up. **This means nothing.**

She scoffed. **Says the loser.**

The string of insults continued for a few more minutes before Sam consented to log off. Natasha heaved a sigh of relief as she blacked the screen out. The room was bright with sunlight. She rubbed at her eyes, then stifled a yawn.

It was mid-day when they met again. The rendezvous point was an old warehouse near the diner where it had all begun. She watched as they'd filed into the musky building. Sam nodded at her as he passed. She smirked in response.

"You look exhausted."

She glanced over at Steve. He was busy with his bracers, but his eyes were upon her. She noted the circles under his eyes—yet he looked too happy, to have been suffering sleeplessness as a result of the nightmares she knew still plagued him from time to time. Too _gleeful_ , even.

_Something's wrong here. Something doesn't add up._

She slanted her gaze aside towards Sam. In contrast, he looked remarkably rested. _Too_ well rested, for someone who'd been up gaming all night.

"I hear you got knocked clean out last night."

Sam arched a brow at her. "Well, yeah. I was exhausted. We all were." He gave her a once-over. "Seems to me like you didn't get any sleep, though."

It was genuine confusion—enough to convince her. _That was not Sam I crushed to a pulp last night._

Seconds later, a cough brought her back to the present. She glanced over at Steve. He met her gaze with a look of equal confusion, brows furrowed, as if he were trying to figure something out. Then his eyes widened, and he took a step back, evidently scandalised.

_Well, fancy that. I beat Captain America in a video game and I didn't even realise it._

The shock passed quickly enough, giving way to sheepish amusement. A guilt-ridden smile curled the Captain's lips. She narrowed her eyes, but found it hard to scowl. Part of her reeled, found it difficult to believe that Steve of all people could exude the archetypal gaming male with such familiarity. His use of jargon, his mastery of the game—it had fooled even her.

She blamed her lack of sleep.

He was still looking guiltily at her, his eyes stark beneath the frame of his lashes. But he was aware of her scepticism. Acknowledged it, even, with the slightest shrug of his shoulder. She was certain he'd enjoyed every moment of it, no matter how hard he tried to deny the fact.

She decided to never tell him how much she'd enjoyed it herself.

He glanced over his shoulder to check that Sam and Clint were out of earshot before speaking up. "Stark made me play Streetfighter."

"That where you learnt about one hit KOs?"

" _That_ , I learnt from Happy. Something about a notary Pepper hired fighting dirty."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Steve and Nat just spent all night gaming with each other without even knowing. It's a fluff piece, go with it.
> 
> Secondly, some things I should explain:
> 
> *3 million is considered really high damage for a demon hunter.
> 
> **The constitution of your character in DIII is measured by your toughness. 1 million is pathetic. In other words, Clint was building a glass canon.
> 
> The male demon hunter hunches. It's been suggested by lots of players that he get spinal reconstruction surgery. Hee hee hee.
> 
> Both the male and female monk speak in Russian accents. Trust Nat to be snarky about it.
> 
> The monk has a skill that shields them from all attacks. Captain America. Shield. Fun times.
> 
> And yes. When your toon dies, the corpse sometimes flies.
> 
> Now that all the explaining is done, disclaimer time! I don't own Marvel or Blizzard or Capcom, which is briefly mentioned. I imagine Sam's going to make Clint play Resident Evil after this. Ha.


	6. Saturday Night's Alright For Fighting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post Avengers: Steve needs a distraction to stop him hanging onto the past, and Fury thinks Natasha's perfect for the job.

"Hit me."

He eyed her, brows furrowed, sweat beading his face. "I don't want to hurt you."

She raised a brow and folded her arms, widening her stance. He watched her with concern, anxiety rippling through the corded muscles that made up his torso and arms. It amused her, somewhat, his concern—the worry he'd hurt her.

As if he _could_.

"Cap, I don't know what you've heard about me—"

" _She can beat you up ten ways to Sunday, and won't hesitate._ "

"Exactly."

The corner of his lip quirked slightly as he regarded her. He straightened, brushed his hands off on his sweatpants, and crossed his arms, matching her stance. "Agent Romanoff, I have no doubt you'd be able to take me to school if you really wanted to."

"So what's the problem, Rogers?"

"I know you've read my file. I know, that _you_ know, that I was trained in a camp that made it pretty difficult for men to underestimate women."

She tried to ignore the slight strain in his voice, the slight narrowing of his eyes that betrayed a lifetime of hurt and loss.

Despite the surge of emotion rippling through her chest, Natasha was trained to conceal. She lifted her chin slightly, meeting his eyes. "If you're telling me your refusal to hit me has something to do with some forties chivalry, Rogers, you can save it."

"It's called morals, ma'am. I don't hit women."

"In this century, it's called being sexist."

He let out a breath. She was relieved to see the ache in his eyes dissipating, blending into a combination of exasperation and exhaustion. "I don't think Barton's going to approve of my brawling with his missus."

"First mistake—I'm _nobody's_ missus."

Steve frowned—then slowly, one blond eyebrow quirked upward. She heard his voice in her head, despite his physical silence. _Really?_

Gritting her teeth, she lunged for him, throwing out her fist. She expected he would block it—he did not disappoint, his hand surging upward, strong fingers curling about her wrist. His eyes met hers. She favoured him with a smile, knowing it would serve both to confuse, and to bait—then grabbed his wrist with her free hand, and without warning, swung her body upwards, locking her thighs about his neck.

He'd hit the ground before he'd even found the time to yelp. He blinked at her, slightly stunned, dazed, somewhat embarrassed. Natasha leaned closer—as intended, she'd landed atop him, knees pressed into the ground on either side of his chest. It didn't take him long to find his bearings—and his indignance.

He scowled, though she failed to see any real venom behind it. "They also said you didn't fight fair."

She felt her lip curl. "I _don't._ "

Steve grunted as she rolled off him. She doubted he'd felt more than a slight nudge at her elbow connecting with his broad, solid chest, but offered a hand to him, anyway. He shook his head, and helped himself to his feet.

"Come on, Rogers. My boss gave me a mission. Don't make it any harder for me, will you?"

"What's he scared I'd do? I'm about as sane as a person can be after a long-haul flight sixty years into the future." He peered at her, eyes searching. "And if I were really in need of a baby-sitter, do you honestly think Fury would approve of your methods?"

She shrugged. "Keep him occupied, he'd said. He didn't specify _how_." Amusement bubbled within her. She jerked her head gently at him, pursing her lips briefly. "I have other… methods, but I think you'd disapprove of them even more."

He frowned at her. Moments passed—then his expression changed, confusion melting away into nervous understanding coupled with muted horror. Somehow, he managed to keep his voice level. "I came here to punch things."

She flexed her fingers, then bent her knees, broadening her stance. "Good. Punch me." She paused. "Or try."

He was hesitant at first, but she was relentless. Assault after assault, swiftly-timed kicks meeting deft punches and sheer brute force. He'd charge, she'd dart away. She'd strike, he'd parry. Twice more, she brought him to the ground in a tangle of sweaty limbs and frustrated grunts. He'd retaliated with a few well-aimed blows of his own, though he'd halted their session long enough to apologise profusely each time they'd landed.

She didn't know whether she found his honourable manners more irritating, or endearing. Her left shoulder throbbed where she'd landed when he'd wrestled her onto the floor. There was a cut on her jawline that stung—landing solidly atop her, his face had collided with hers, his teeth cutting into her pale flesh.

He'd been so stricken by guilt that he'd called for a ceasefire.

She'd floored him for it, throwing him chest-down and twisting his arm back. He hadn't let her hold him down for long, though, and she didn't try to keep him so. Again and again, they tumbled and rolled, breathless, yet unwilling to concede.

Eventually, they'd ended up on their backs upon the mats, limbs strewn over limbs, faces mere inches apart. He stared at her then, panting hard, his chest heaving beneath her forearm. They'd given up struggling some minutes before, each trying to wrangle the other into submission, and both failing and succeeding at the same time.

She forced herself to ignore the way his lashes, drenched in sweat, seemed to curl against his eyelids. The hardness of his body, the muscle-bound arm and lightly-fisted hand by her cheek—she blocked them out, and focused instead on his eyes.

"You've worn me out, Rogers. Now you owe me a drink."

He chuckled weakly, and shifted the hand closest to her, clasping his palm over his face. His voice came out muffled. "I think this is the part where I fall asleep, ma'am."

There was a slight teasing tone to his voice that made her think he hadn't quite meant it as innocently as one might have imagined. But when he removed his hand moments later, the smile on his face was warm, innocuously sweet. She decided he was simply unaware.

"Already? Don't put Doctor Erskine to shame, soldier. His serum's worth more than one round."

He groaned as he shifted, supporting himself on his arm as he looked down at her. "I think he'd be proud I lasted as long, actually. You never met me before."

She rolled over and sat up as he got to his feet and made towards the benches. He grabbed some towels, then returned to her side.

"When you were just a skinny kid from Brooklyn, you mean?"

Steve tilted his head slightly, one hand rubbing the back of his head dry of sweat. He handed her a bottle of water. "Yeah. You'd probably have knocked me out in three seconds flat."

She pursed her lips, fighting back a smile. It was difficult to—particularly in the presence of Steve Rogers, who was known to melt hearts with his genuinely warm smiles.

Skinny or not, she didn't think that would ever change.

"Maybe." She unscrewed her bottle of water. Their eyes met. She allowed the smile lingering upon her lips to materialise. "But for what it's worth, I don't think you'd stay down, Rogers."

He sat cross-legged by her side, his own grin broadening slightly. There was a slight flush in his cheeks that she thought had nothing to do with how winded they both were. She handed him her opened bottle of water—he took a long drink.

She watched him as he drank, his half-lidded eyes affixed upon a faraway point. He was lost in his thoughts—she'd often seen him zone out, and though he'd come back to the present when someone called, it was always with the same look of regret. He was out of place, and aching for a time that was lost, far beyond his grasp.

_You saw how he was in New York. He needs company in this new world. He needs someone rooted in today's society and technology, but with enough knowledge of his world. You're it._

She'd questioned Fury's choices at first. If it were technological know-how, Stark would've been the go-to-person. And there were other ways to teach him about how the world had changed, without assigning a permanent caretaker to him.

Still, even she had to admit that watching him surface from thoughts of his past was gut-wrenching. He ached, but the watcher ached too.

She reached out to touch his shoulder. He jerked back, startled, his sky-touched eyes wavering as they found hers. She squeezed gently. He quirked a corner of his lip upward.

"C'mon, Cap. Let's go get you a drink."

"You know that doesn't do anything for me, right?"

"That's why we're going for ice cream sodas."

He snorted as he got to his feet in her wake. "Isn't that a bit old-fashioned?"

"Well, I'm an old fashioned sort of gal." She threw her sweatshirt over her training tank. "You coming or not?"

He followed her to the door, depositing the nearly-empty bottle of water into the wastebin. "So, not Barton, then?"

"None of your business, Rogers."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't own anything, Marvel does.
> 
> This one was written to set up a bit of backstory between New York and The Winter Soldier. I assume afterwards, when all his superhero friends had gone back to where they'd come from, Cap would've needed something to hang onto. Fortunately, Fury thought Natasha was it. I don't think she's complaining.
> 
> It's pretty self-explanatory either way, so I hope y'all enjoyed it! Cheers, until next time!
> 
> PS—in my head, Steve was totally teasing Nat when he said it was maybe time for him to fall asleep. _ He's shown he's not incapable of joking, after all. Hur hur.


	7. Melt With You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following a harrowing conversation with Fury, Natasha seeks Steve out for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This chapter contains smut. You have been warned.

He'd watched, an outsider. The shadowed bunker that housed Fury's bed was large enough to have fit the three of them, but Natasha had wanted to go at it alone.

"Stay here."

He hadn't been sure if she'd meant to keep him close, or to keep him out. She'd squeezed his fingers, though, her eyes wavering as she held his gaze.

"Please."

It'd been barely whispered, the faint word she'd breathed through her teeth, but he'd understood the request after.

Alone in the dimly-lit corridor, he'd waited. There was a small window that would've allowed him a view into the interior of Fury's recovery room, but the conversation happening within felt so private somehow. He wasn't a part of it, and he wasn't sure Natasha would've appreciated him watching her confront her boss.

He hadn't expected it to be anything less than ugly.

In truth, it was only a short hour later before he'd returned to Natasha's assigned rooming for the night. He'd been given a two-bed compartment further down the hall, but she'd grabbed his hand the moment Fury's door had slammed shut behind her, and they hadn't stopped walking. He didn't think it was appropriate to ask.

He wasn't about to complain, anyway. Steve Rogers was the sort of man who wanted to know that his partner and friend—one of the few he trusted in the moment—was all right.

Still, she was silent as she pulled him along, and said nothing even after falling onto her bed with a soft thump. He sat by her side, feeling his hand clutched within hers, awkwardly needing to flex but refusing to jostle her away.

She inhaled deeply. He saw her brow furrow, her nose twitch the way it often did whenever she was annoyed, or worried. Then, her fingers moved, and she pulled away with a quick and irritable sniffle.

He'd almost recoiled. The long decades spent on the ice had done little to help his knowledge of the female sex. The time he'd spent working with Natasha and Hill in the modern world had allowed him to learn more of the twenty-first century woman's mind.

Natasha was not _just_ a woman of the twenty first century. She was complex, a character with so many layers—some true and most false. She wore her masks, keeping up with the pretences she'd grown to shroud herself with.

When they'd met, Steve had thought she'd been unreachable, distant. Even after the incident of New York, their first missions together were all business. She seemed to have little interest in becoming his friend. To a certain extent, he'd been fine with it. Despite the cavernous hole of loneliness he'd been loath to acknowledge existed, Steve Rogers was _not_ one to question a colleague's desire to keep a private life after work. That, and the fact that Natasha Romanoff was not a woman he thought he'd ever warm up to. Respect, yes. Honour, most certainly. Fight alongside, definitely, with pleasure.

Befriend and trust? Highly doubtful. Come to care deeply for, even more so.

It had all changed the day she'd waltzed into S.H.I.E.L.D's training floor, claiming necessity for distraction by sparring. Punch by punch, kick by tedious kick; each measured movement wore at their layers, scratched the surface raw, until there'd been nothing left but weary, sweaty limbs. He'd been surprised at how welcome the exhaustion had been. She'd surprised him by showing up again, every single day.

They'd spent their afternoons drinking sodas and coffees and exchanging stories—he'd done most of the talking while she'd listened, idly nibbling her straw. He remembered the way her lips curled around the plastic, twisted into a slight grin whenever he'd said something funny. Once, she wore lipstick, and he'd watched as the crimson lifted off onto the edge of her cappuccino cup. She'd grinned at him over the lip of her cup, eyes narrowed.

He'd drawn her later that day, etched the crimson, curve by coquettish curve onto paper. He wondered how her lips would have tasted.

 _Everything_ had changed. She'd become a friend. He'd trusted her—now more so than ever.

"Nat." He offered, quietly.

She grunted.

"Tell me?"

Her eyes gleamed as she slanted her gaze to his face. He was reminded of the moment they'd shared in Sam's bedroom. No longer alone, blessed with a new ally, yet still, intrinsically, bound to one another. It had been just them, it had seemed, for days—though it had been merely hours. Despite Sam's presence there, it was still just them in that space, the closed-off sanctuary the both of them had wordlessly agreed to share.

They were back again, back in the space and back within safe walls built on trust and patience.

Testing the waters, he lay his hand upon her shoulder. She didn't flinch. "Come on. Tell me."

"He doesn't trust me." The words were softly spoken, as if she were having trouble repeating them aloud to herself. "He had to keep the pool so small, that I couldn't know. Not even Clint." An edge of bitterness crept into her voice; he thought it lacked any real venom, and was relieved for it. "He trusted Maria. Only her."

She inhaled sharply as he squeezed her shoulder, turning her head away. He pursed his lips. The words died away in his throat. They were insufficient, meaningless. She'd been betrayed, utterly and completely, by the man she'd trusted above all others. What words he'd had to comfort her had been spent. She'd heard them all, taken them in, and still, he knew, she was aching.

It hadn't been enough. _He_ hadn't been enough.

So he tugged at her, gently at first, in an attempt to get her to look at him. She hesitated, but did not resist—so he pulled her in, insistently drawing her tiny frame closer, before wrapping both arms about her shoulders, guiding her forward. She nuzzled closer then, pressing her cheek to his chest; he heard her sigh.

"He'll know." He ventured, quietly. "Next time, he'll know how much you rely on him. How much you rely on his honesty." She tensed slightly; he brushed at her forehead, gently tilting her head back to look her in the eyes. "And he'll know to never make the same mistake."

"You don't know that." Natasha's breath warmed his cheeks. He hadn't realised how close she'd come to him—so close he could see the tiny flecks of gold in her eyes. "You don't know that, Steve. We're all just pawns in his game, you see. Remember the Lemurian Star? He lies to survive, we both do. We trust no one, and I understand why he didn't trust me, but it—"

"Hurts." Steve squeezed her, gently. "I know. That's what it means to trust a friend, though. You open yourself up to it. The good and the bad, you take it all."

She thinned her lips, brow furrowing as she considered. He wondered if she'd ever realise how intensely beautiful she looked in those moments—bare and open, with walls torn away.

He didn't have quite enough time to etch the sight of her into his mind, as he'd done so many times before. Instead, he could only gasp as she straightened to kiss him.

The minutes melted away. On the elevator, they'd been pressed for time, pretending, hiding in plain sight. There was no Rumlow at present to stop them, no rogue agents to hide from. Here in the bunker of the man who'd brought them together—in more ways than he likely realised, they were safe.

Here in her arms, holding her tight as she held onto him, equally fervent, he was _home_.

She pulled away slowly; he sensed the reluctance in the way she drew back, her breaths warm and soft against his face, her eyes half-lidded as she gazed up at him, unsure. Her lips parted slowly as she exhaled. Steve resisted the urge to kiss her again.

"I'm sorry." She whispered. He'd never seen her as soft, nor as tender.

She was _stunning_ to him.

"Don't be." He brushed her jaw briefly, and felt her quaver against his touch. "I've been wanting to do it myself."

"I know."

"I know you knew."

"I knew that too."

He let out a soft chuckle. "Fine. I'll let you win."

"Will you?" Her lower lip trembled.

"Just this once."

She lowered her gaze, and he was rewarded with the trademark smirk she so often wore when pleased. "How ungentlemanly, Rogers."

He nudged her chin gently; she looked up at him. "Well, the terms are negotiable. Is that good enough for you?"

He could see the movement in her throat where she swallowed. Her eyes flickered up, and then down. She was nervous, and he was aching in a way he hadn't ached in quite a while. He'd ached this same way with Peggy, his throat and heart and stomach burning as they'd shared their first, and last kiss. It had been chaste, then.

With Natasha, the ache was different. It consumed his being, ravaged his soul and mind. It drove forward with a deep and longing desire. With Natasha, he wanted to know more, to feel more.

He wanted her, certainly in more ways than one—certainly in more ways than in body and pleasure.

He wanted _her_. He wanted _all_ of her.

She wanted him, too.

He hadn't anticipated that her response could melt him from the inside out. Her lips found his own, soft and cool, yet feverishly determined at the same time. She probed into his mouth, curling into him. Her fingers—slender, yet wrought with strength, dug into his shoulders, pulling and pushing.

He hadn't realised they would melt together in that way. Hadn't dared to suppose she might choose him, mark him for her own. Hadn't thought she would let him in, and let him stay.

They fell together, warm bodies upon smooth and sterile sheets, her weight upon his torso. He could feel her knees digging into the mattress on either side of his waist, feel the wispy ends of her crimson tendrils brushing against his jaw and throat as she kissed him. In the barest of moments when he could pull his mind from the magic she wove, and open his eyes through the haze of desire, he saw _her_. Her eyes shut, lashes thick and red resting upon her cheekbones, both unravelled yet goddess-like in breathless abandon. Shapely hips rocked against his aching groin, setting fire to his blood. His hands tightened about her waist; she ground harder against him.

She wove her hands through his hair, fingertips threading through the blond, hot breaths tickling his jaw and throat. "We shouldn't." Timid and faint, her words echoed guilt—guilt, he knew, because she was afraid. Afraid of taking from him.

He wondered if she'd ever believe he wanted it as much, if not more.

"Do you want this?" It took so much effort—so much restraint, to grab onto her shoulders, hold her away. Her eyes, dark green in the dim light, gleamed. He rubbed her skin gently, forcing himself to breathe, forcing himself to be still and calm.

He hoped the bulge straining against the front of his pants wasn't too prominent.

"We shouldn't." She repeated, her voice hoarse. Crimson brows knitted together. She leaned closer, trembling, as her lips brushed tenderly against his own. Unsure, uncertain, yet longing. Her words were a whisper. "But I want you, Steve."

She let out a breath, a faint gasp of surprise as he rolled her onto her back. The green gleamed again, this time, accompanied by a smirk of amusement. He arched a brow at her, leaning forward to plant his elbow by her shoulder. She was so close, so near to him that he could just make out the scent of _her_ beneath antiseptic and soap. "I want this." He swallowed. "Any time you want to stop, you say something."

"Any time _you_ want to stop, _you_ say something." Her hands moved to his shirt, sliding beneath the fabric, palms cool upon his abdomen. He tensed, hissing slightly as they travelled further south. "Okay?"

"I won't."

She watched with narrowed eyes as he'd pulled his shirt over his head, and kicked his pants off. Despite all he'd read, all he'd seen, and all Bucky had told him about The First Time, Steve was painfully certain he knew next to nothing. His heart throbbed against his throat as he rolled her tank top up slowly. The scar tissue upon her belly caught his attention—she inhaled sharply as he, on instinct, lavished it with a kiss, then helped to pull her bra away.

The sound only served to urge him forward. She writhed beneath him, breathing his name through gritted teeth as he trailed along her body, tasting and feeling. Her shoulder tensed beneath the bandages; he calmed her with a kiss, then dipped lower to catch her taut nipple between his teeth. Lower and lower he trailed; the longer he searched, the sharper her breaths drew. He kissed her lower lips then, tasted the pearl between her legs.

 _That_ time, she cried his name aloud.

She tensed, moaning against his chest, when he'd finally hilted himself in her. She was hot, sticky with sweat and slick with need. Delicate as a flower, yet strong as the steel that was his symbol, his shield. Yet in his embrace, she melted, and in hers, he found release. As primal urge took over, he kissed her lips and throat; she wrapped her legs about his torso, meeting each forward thrust equal fervour and force.

He came, hard and quick.

Utterly spent, they lay swathed in discarded clothing and rumpled sheets, forehead to forehead, gazes locked. He found her hand, and tugged it to his chest. She swallowed, yet did not pull away.

He opened his mouth to speak, and was silenced with her finger upon his lips.

"Don't say it, Steve." The crimson lashes trembled. "Don't."

"But you know it's true." _I think I'm falling in love with you._

"Not yet. Not right now."

He brushed his thumb along her jaw. "Not right now, then."

"At some point." She leaned over and kissed him. "At some point, you'll say it and I'll say it too."

He kissed her back.

They melted together again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I tried to write fluff and ended up with smut. For those of you who aren't into that sort of thing, I'm sorry! I'll try and be fluffier next round!
> 
> Sorry I haven't updated in such a long time! I got caught up with a bunch of stuff and haven't been able to focus on writing—especially since I also write for work and whatnot. I've also been going through a pretty severe block insofar as writing goes, but well. A shipper's gotta ship, right? Thanks so much to all of you who've favourited and reviewed and followed! I'm really grateful, and I look forward to more! Do drop a review, or leave a prompt if you have any. I'm always glad to accommodate.
> 
> I own nothing—Marvel owns it all! Cheers, and until next time!


	8. By Any Other Name

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's late and Natasha is hungry; Stark wants to know why she won't let him call her "Nat"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Prompt by FrozenForEver. Comment with your own!

She was _starving_.

The mission had taken far too long, and she’d been running on adrenaline and caffeine before—much too much of both to realise that she hadn’t eaten in over twelve hours. There had been muffins at the debriefing, but they’d been something ghastly; oatmeal, or sprouted wheat, or something grainy of the sort.

She wanted doughnuts, and pizza. Deep-fried cheese-sticks and ice cream.

It was close to two in the morning when she’d finally reached the tower, slumped over and aching in eight places. She kicked her boots off in the elevator, stripping off the tattered remains of her suit; the bullets and blades had gotten a touch too close.

 _No one’s going to be awake, anyway._ She reasoned to herself, wincing as she plucked bits of dried blood from her hairline. _Ouch_.

The elevator let out a sharp, clean ‘ _ding’_. She let out a sigh, flicking the blood from her nail, then straightened.

 _Fuck_.

Steve was staring at her, an eyebrow arched quizzically into his brow. “Do I want to know why you’re standing in Stark’s elevator in your underwear?”

She stared at him, hoping her unimpressed expression sufficiently conveyed her sentiments.

Ever the gentleman, Captain America stepped aside to let her pass.

Level 22 was reserved for dining, equipped with stoves, hobs and hoods that were rarely used. Once in a while, Steve and Bruce would come together to make some up some sort of supper, but for the most part, they all preferred the privacy of their own floors, and the comfort of take-out cuisine.

She’d finished the previous day’s leftover Indian food, however, and the last box of cereal she’d purchased tasted like cardboard.

She’d forgotten to slip the box into Stark’s collection of foodstuffs, and reminded herself to do so after. Stark would never realise, and since she had no intentions whatsoever to eat the rubbish in the box, a sore chastising by Captain America would be in store once it came time for her to throw it out.

He _hated_ when she wasted food. She’d supposed at first that his conscientiousness came from years spent in a time when food had been scarce.

She later learnt it was because he was just _that_ good and decent of a person. The man was all morals and equality and freedom.

Thankfully, Level 22—or the Feeding Floor, as Clint and Sam preferred, could always be relied upon for a good store-cupboard raid. JARVIS kept it stocked; she would never admit it aloud, but Natasha was eternally grateful the AI knew exactly which brand of chorizo she preferred.

And he always, always made sure to replenish their stash of pizza-flavoured Pringles.

Steve followed in her wake as she streaked across the dimly-lit floor, pulling groceries from the fridge and shelves. “You’re late.”

“I’m hungry.” She growled, standing up onto her tiptoes to snatch a pan from where it hung over the stove. It eluded her grasp, clanging loudly against one of the other heavy-bottomed stock-pots by its side.

He must’ve heard the irritable whimper she’d released, because he’d reached for it in her stead. She wondered if she’d have killed him if she hadn’t been so hungry.

Grudgingly, she muttered, “Thanks.”

He chuckled fondly, then jerked his head towards the couch. “Go wrap up before one of the other boys walk in, will you? I’ll cook.”

“Not like you haven’t seen what’s under this, anyway.” She wrinkled her nose at him.

“Blanket, Romanoff.”

He didn’t blush _that_ time. Inwardly, she applauded the improvement. _You’re getting better at this, Rogers._

“Aye aye, Captain.”

The sound of sizzling sausages was music to her ears. She ambled to his side, bits of blanket dragging behind her on the floor, the woollen fabric pressed flush against her cheeks. He glanced aside at her, arching a brow as he cracked white pepper into the pan.

“So what happened out there?”

“That’s classified information, Rogers.”

He snorted, but didn’t push the subject. Gentle eyes studied her face, then met her own gaze, the blue steady and even. Trusting.

“You sure you’re okay, Nat?” He reached forward, fingertips finding the bruise on her forehead. She shuddered against his touch, and hated herself for it.

_Weakness. Pathetic, Romanoff._

Still, she wanted to fall – _had_ fallen. And so she merely quirked a smile. “Come on, Steve. You know the risks. Broken bones are the least of our troubles.”

“I’m starting to think this life of espionage and heroism isn’t all it’s cracked up to be.” He thumbed gently at the bruise. She almost whimpered as he drew away, pulling with him the warmth of his fingers – but the sausages demanded his attention.

She thought she could do without them, if the warmth returned.

“Who knows. Maybe one day we’ll be able to break out of it. Live normal lives.” She forced herself from his side, making towards the servingware cabinet. “Get married. Have kids. Live on a pension.” She paused, then, smirking. “Oh, wait. You already live on one.”

“Har, har.” Steve lifted the pan from the stove, then gently shook the sausages onto the slate-coloured plate she’d retrieved. “For your information, it’s a very respectable man that’s earned the right to a pension.”

“I’m sure.” She stabbed at a sausage with her fork. He always got them right – crisp skinned and only just cooked on the inside. “Have some. I can’t eat _all_ of them.”

“Bye bye, bikini?” He grinned, that boyishly charming smile curling his lips.

She handed him a fork. “Yeah, I bet I look terrible in them now.”

He chuckled, shaking his head, but was otherwise silent. Together, they ate; she, with ravenous hunger. It wasn’t until minutes later, when he was nudging the last of the sausages to her side of the plate, that the elevator bell sounded once more.

When she’d looked up, Stark was striding towards them, stiffling a yawn. “What on earth are you two doing up at this god-forsaken hour?” He paused, then, seemingly coming to as he looked between them. “Please don’t tell me you had sex on the couch. I’d rather not have you befouling my furniture.”

“Technically, the furniture in my bedroom belongs to you too.” She shrugged a shoulder, and was rewarded with a weak, bashful chuckle from Steve.

Stark frowned. “That’s true. So tell me, Nat—exactly what are you doing in my feeding hall in the wee hours of the morning, naked?” He glanced aside towards Steve, who was taking an extraordinarily long time swallowing the remains of his last bite.

“Natasha.” She popped a small cut of sausage into her mouth, muttering darkly as she chewed. “And I’m not naked.”

In response, Stark merely held up the remains of her suit, causing Steve to choke violently on his water.

“Well.” She shrugged again, after sparing the red-faced Captain a glance. “I’ve got a blanket.”

“Be that as it may, Nat—”

“ _Natasha_.”

Stark waved a hand impatiently. “Nuance. Be that as it may, I hope you’ll tell me if Fury is sending you out on missions again.”  
  
“Fury’s _dead_.” Natasha reminded him mildly.

“Sure he is.” Stark tossed her suit back at her. “My point is, while I don’t really care that you’re ever so often meeting up with your dead bosses The Furiously Cool Sons—yes, I know _he’s_ dead, too—I’d rather you not die while still on _my_ payroll. I fund the avengers, and you’re an avenger. I’m not sure Pepper would enjoy having to deal with the bad press of having one of you drop dead in the midst of some clandestine mission not even officially sanctioned by us.”

“Sure, boss.” She quirked her lip. He merely stared levelly back at her, unamused.

It wasn’t hard to see through the false bravado and the teasing—wasn’t hard to figure out he actually gave several damns. For all his cocky arrogance and snarky nature, and for all he fought to vehemently deny it, Stark cared.

She mocked him for it, daily, both because it amused her when he got mad, and because it was actually a trait she found endearing in him.

“Back me up here, Cap.” He shuffled towards Steve, who only chuckled and shrugged. “You’re partners. Try to make sure she doesn’t get offed in action _before_ Pepper finds another assistant, okay?”

“She’s not an assistant any more, though.” Steve shifted in his chair. He’d watched the bantering with equal amounts of amusement and exasperation, elbows upon the table and hands clasped together beneath his chin. “She’s too good to be _just_ that.”

He sounded almost _proud_ of her.

She caught herself smiling. “Steve.”

Across the table, he met her eyes, dipped his head gently, his lips curled ever so slightly in that smile he so often lavished upon her. It meant nothing, and everything. “Nat.”

_Damn it. Trust Stark to ruin everything._

“Natasha.”

_Speak of the devil._

Steve glanced aside towards Stark, arching his brow. Stark, however, was busy staring at her, his own dark brow furrowed in confusion.

“Natasha.” He repeated, both petulantly, and expectantly.

She shrugged a shoulder. “Yeah?”

“ _He_ gets to call you Nat?” Stark sounded incredulous as he backed a pace; one hand moved to clasp over his chest, as if he were offended somehow. She _loved_ it. “How’s that even fair?”

“He cooks me sausages in the middle of the night.” She hopped off her stool. Right on cue, Steve followed – to her amusement, and to Stark’s bemusement.

“I BUY the sausages!” Stark grunted, pointing between the pair. “Traitors, you two, unless.” He paused. Dark eyes studied them, probingly. Without remorse.

Then the eyes brightened, and he let out a knowing yelp. “You two!”

Natasha laughed, tossing her hair over her shoulder. In the time it took Steve to load the washer, she’d found the half-finished bottle of wine from the previous evening’s meal.

“I knew it. I should have seen this coming, you two—”

“Goodnight, Stark.”

“Not on my furniture, you guys.”

He was still talking at them when the elevator door slammed shut.

After, they laughed, tangled in each others’ limbs, skin upon skin as they watched the sunrise together. The gold bathing the city streets. The softness of the early-morning dew upon the windows.

After, he whispered in her ear, called her name.

“Nat.”

She loved it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author’s Note: Holy wow, guys! I’m so sorry I’ve been away so long, but thanks to all you people for continually sending me good thoughts by way of follows, favourites, the odd comment and Tumblr poke! I’m grateful for any and all feedback, so please do continue to let me know what you think!
> 
> I’m still definitely taking prompts, so send me yours via review, comment, or find me on Tumblr as emmelyncindy! Thanks so much, each and every one of you – happy belated Christmas and have a good coming 2015! Cheers!


	9. Archie, Marry Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A New Year's Party undercover takes a good turn when nothing goes wrong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt by Yvonne. Comment with your own!

New York City was better suited to the likes of Stark.

He’d thought it then, and again each time he’d had to visit. The bright lights and flamboyant screen displays that flashed advertisement after advertisement – the big city. None of it was excessively interesting to him.

Once upon a time, it had been. Things had been simpler _then_.

Eighty years down the road, Steve Rogers had just about had his fill of spangly stars and big city glitz.

Outside the tinted glass windows of Stark’s limousine, he could see it all, block after block, each flashier than the last. People – so many people, and most of them young. Lovers and friends, couples and groups; they stood in line outside theaters and pubs, dressed to the nines and ready to party the night away.

New Year’s Eve in New York City. How fitting it was that Captain America himself be scheduled for duty for that very evening.

_Keeping the peace in the hopes of another good year. Another safe year._

He glanced over to his side. Met the green eyes that studied him, even as he studied them in turn.

“What’s the matter, Rogers? Wishing you had the night off to join the party?”

The deadpan expression he knew he wore did not faze the woman.

“I thought we _are_ going to a party.”

Natasha laughed, leaning back in her seat. Sprawled almost lazily upon the pale cream leather, she nonetheless retained a cat-like elegance that well fitted the sinuous dress she wore.

It clung to her every curve, heavily sequinned to render her a vision in crimson – a mermaid who wore glistening scales close to her skin.

Natasha Romanoff was no fish out of water. Espionage had always been her strongest suit.

“Relax, Rogers. It’s not a confirmed threat, anyway, so we might actually have some fun at this gala.” Deep red lips curled to form that smile he knew so well. The green in her eyes darkened. There was no need for words – he understood her meaning well enough.

He swallowed, and felt his throat strain against his clothes.

The bowtie was too damn tight.

So were his pants.

She laughed again, but was kind enough – he was grateful for it – to stop.

“What would you be doing, then?” He cleared his throat, leaned back into his seat. She met his eyes, brow arched.

“You mean _who_.”

“I meant _what_.”

He heard the scoffing snort escape the man in the driver’s seat of the limo. Fury’s man, Hunter – easy with a joke, quick to smile. They’d worked together a couple of times.

Steve usually enjoyed the man’s wit. Usually.

Just then, however, all he wanted to do was to wipe the smirk he knew was on the man’s face, off.

Natasha grinned at him. “On any old New Years’ eve, Rogers? I can’t answer that.” She paused, tilting her head slightly. Crimson curls brushed perfectly-painted cheeks; the pearl earrings dripping from her lobes kissed her slender neck. “Haven’t had a New Years’ eve to myself, ever.”

That caught him off guard. “Ever?”

Her smile softened a bit. He caught a glimpse of regret; but it faded quickly, and was replaced by acknowledgment, resignation. “We signed up for it.”

He nodded gently, watching as she turned to face the window. In the dimly-lit interior of their vehicle, he saw the way her neck curved, diamonds and emeralds glittering against her throat.

Her voice came out a quiet murmur. “You ever spend New Years’ eve with someone worth remembering?”

“Just one.” He remarked.

She let out a quiet ‘hmm’.

“I’m sure we’ll remember tonight, too.” He added, tentatively.

He meant it.

She turned her head slightly. Vulnerable. Open. He’d seen that look many times since the first time they’d bared all, but each time, it still took his breath away.

In those moments, she was _real_. He’d reach out to touch her, if only in his mind, and it would feel as if he had done it in person.

“Yeah?” She quirked her lip.

He smiled. “It’s not every day a man gets to take his gal out for a night in the town. Especially not an army man.”

In the silence, he felt her smile.

The silence was comfortable, one that continued through the minutes until their car pulled to a stop. In the driver’s seat, Hunter turned around, draping an arm over the shoulder of the passenger seat. “You all right, lovebirds?”

“Relax.” Natasha slid towards the door. “Stark throws enough parties for us to know how to behave in them.”

Steve glanced towards Hunter, then back towards Natasha, who, with a quick wink, slipped out the limo. Graceful as always. Teasing.

Flirting up close, but not quite meaning it – not with Hunter, anyway.

“We’ll be waiting round the block.” Hunter jerked his head towards the door. “Good luck with your two left feet, Cap.”

In the festivity of the season, the crowds were thankfully blind to the pair of Captain America and his Russian lover. They’d discussed photostatic veils at the debriefing; Coulson and May had wondered if it would have been a better idea for the pair to go in completely undercover. It was Stark who’d spoken up after, rendering the room silent.

“Let them see Cap and Widow.” Tony had remarked. “If there’s really a threat, it’d be neutralised by the thought of her deathly kisses. Would’t want to get on this one’s wrong side.”

Steve had spent the rest of the evening vehemently denying that he’d kicked Stark on purpose. They’d decided against the veils, after.

Natasha led him up a short flight of steps to the wide-arched doorway of some lofty, high-end gala hall, her hand tucked in his. It was so natural, somehow. Natural, in the way the slender fingers curled ever so gently about his own palm.

Where the fingers were gentle with him most days, he knew they had seen, and dealt death.

As he squeezed the hand, Natasha handed their invitations to the doorman, who barely glanced their way before ushering them in.

“And that’s why they need us here.” He muttered at her, and was pleased to hear her chuckle.

The hall was filled with the city’s elite, socialites and bachelors in various states of entanglement in the balconies overhead. Fairy lights and streamers surrounded the overhanging chandelier in bursts of colour. Beneath, the guests were dancing, couples and friends alike laughing in anticipation of the new year.

Over seventy years now, and he still hadn’t learnt how to dance.

As if sensing his thoughts, the hand in his tightened slightly. He hadn’t noticed that Natasha’s hand had never left his. Glancing aside, he met her smile, and felt his heart skip a beat.

_No, it’s not you, Peg. Not you, eh?_

Just Natasha, who never questioned. For all she had seen, felt, and tasted to render her insecurities a lifelong curse, Natasha had never once questioned his love for her. Never begrudged the space in his heart he knew was dedicated to Peggy, and Peggy alone.

She knew. She understood.

She, too, had loved and lost in her time.

He wondered then if Natasha was aware that it was she who held the rest of his heart, and all of his mind and soul.

“You alright, Rogers?” Her voice was low, but warm. “I don’t think we’re in any danger here tonight.”

He glanced about. Scanned the room.

The intercom in his ear confirmed his thoughts. On the opposite end, Stark sounded bored, even disappointed. “It’s a bust, folks. The building’s clean, we’ve swept it, and everyone’s been identified.”

Natasha let out a breath, looking out over the dancing. “Clear?”

Stark grunted. “Have fun, lovebirds.”

She looked towards him, then, wrinkling her nose quickly. “Well, that was a collosal waste of our time. And on your one night off, too.”

He felt his heart lurch a bit. _Is it because you’re thinking of Peg, or is it something else?_

He didn’t know.

Natasha edged closer to the dance floor. Her lips curled a touch.

He decided it was something else – something else, that had his stomach in knots.

_I will always love you, Peg. But this feeling, right here and right now – this feeling is me letting go, isn’t it? The possibility of something else, something new._

Something new with Natasha.

She’d always led, Natasha. She’d never been much of a follower, and he’d always been content to let her lead. After all, he knew what it meant to her, to be in control of her own life. He let her lead him, then, onto the dance floor, and let her bring him through the motions of the first dance. Slowly, at first, gently, as if going too quickly would break them apart and leave them two broken halves as opposed to one completed whole.

The music was old fashioned, just the way he liked it. He’d wondered if someone had recognised them after all, and pulled some strings so he could feel in place. Soft, dulcet tones crooned lyrics that spoke of uncertain love, and a boy afraid to commit. The girl loved, and it seemed, with all her heart.

_Hey, hey, marry me, Archie,_ she sang.

Swirling in motion around the dance hall, he wondered if he were Archie. The green met his eyes, bright with a hidden smile that he alone saw. Perhaps she were Archie, instead.

_I won’t set my sights on other seas, there is no need to panic._

He felt her breath warm against his cheek as she leaned closer against him, swaying gently. The skirts shimmered in the slowly-dimming light. She was weightless; she weighed everything. He swallowed, and was rewarded with a husky chuckle, as if she were aware of the effect her nearness would have on him.

After all, in this new world, it was she who knew him best.

_So honey, take me by the hand and we can sign some papers._

Lost in the music, he held on to the only thing he knew, and saw.

And then, as words and melody melted away, the chiming of bells broke the silence. The lights were dazzling, but none so bright as to challenge the smile upon her face.

Foghorns, fireworks, and streamers helped to welcome the new year. But all he could think of was the music.

_Hey, hey, marry me, Archie._

Gently, he leaned forward, pressing his lips to her own. She let out a trembling breath, and when he pulled away, he saw that her eyes were closed.

“Nat,” He muttered. It surprised him, how cool his cheeks were. Natasha never passed up an opportunity to tease him for his blushing.

But certainty and surety left no room for embarrassment at present.

“Hm?” She blinked slowly, eyes opening.

He held her hands aloft, pressed them to his chest. “If I asked you now, would you say yes?”

He trusted her to understand. After all, it had lingered long enough between them. The words unsaid, the question he hadn’t asked. But he wanted it, had wanted it for quite a while, even if he hadn’t been entirely certain before.

Natasha’s hands tightened slightly.

“If I asked you now,” He swallowed. In the near deafeaning roar of well-wishes for the new year, and the unending, persistent blaring of foghorns, he nonetheless knew she heard every word. “If I asked you to be my wife, to be Mrs Rogers. Would you say yes? Would you take me?”

He saw the corner of her lip twitch, then. Natasha had never been one for too many words.

So when she kissed him, full and hard on the lips, he took it to mean that Archie had said yes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HI. I’M SORRY, first and foremost, for being away so long and for taking a billionty years with this one. Admittedly, Age of Ultron cut me so deep and so hard that I wanted and needed to remove myself from the Romanogers goodness. Please don’t throw rotten fruit at me!
> 
> I’m hoping ya’ll are still going strong and rooting for our favourite Cap’n Widow! I certainly am. Hopefully I’ll have a bit more time to write in the coming months but with my job, which can be unpredictable at times, we’ll have to see! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter! I’m not good with proposals, alas, but it does sound very Steve to be SURE, and to just say it once he’s sure. Thanks for sticking with me, too, and for those of you who’ve favourited and followed, know that it means the world to me! Your comments, too! Please do continue to read and comment! I also take prompts, so anytime any of you feel up to it, send one my way.
> 
> Until next time, cheers!


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